Rosaline & Tulpa #3

Tell me,
can true love flee away
like those birds that fly away,
having a ditch from a tree of life
to another?
Tell me,
does giving in
to despondency
signify the fate you're opted for
is
not to be loved?

***

Once the blanket covered up my whole body, I fell asleep in an instant.

Rosaline was now sitting on a bench, somewhere in nowhere. The bench was actually dank but whatever. She kept sitting on it as she was trying to figure out where the dream brought her to this time.

Glimmer of hope to find out where she was never really came after some time--she wasn't so certain how long she'd been in there, it was like only minutes but probably coulod be hours--and therefore she began to amble up to wherever her feet heading to. Trees with bare branches were in her both right and left sides, fogs surrounded all over her, and the light was so dim she only could see something within 10 meters, despite the moonlight. She came to a halt for a second and fidgeted for a little while, shuddering, gasping. It occured to her it was just so bizzare that how cozy it was with the way the wing blew plenty of scattered leaves on the boulevard, with the clouds of obscurity in her mind, and with the emptiness she often felt in spite of the crowded world. A pang of pain pricked through her blood, rushing through each artery in her body. A dog was yelping in a far, far away, out of her sight.

She then continued ambling up, enjoying the odd icy dew on her skin.

That is actually pretty rare that I can be pulled away that easily from the reality to the hazy fuzziness, called dreamland, where Tulpa can never come in. And I am really happy, temporarily happy though, as I have waited for this moment to come for... I don't know, like 10 years? 5 years? Or a year, perhaps? I forget how long I've waited for what I thought was just a vain effort, and I also forget how that even feels.

It occurs to me that I terribly yearn to be dragged to this beautiful unconsciousness. And once I'm in it, I never want to be woken up. Ever since I suffer from this disorder, I barely can sleep. The insomnia always has my mind in tangle like it keeps running, working, over thinking regarding something either real or unreal, I can't really tell, because I have these high imaginations that the average teenagers surely don't have.

Imaginations that made my old friends give me weird look, followed by "what are you talking about, you must be joking since it can't be true" once they heard of it. I remember I laughed my ass off despite the agony, not that it was funny, it was awfully hurting instead. I was afwully hurt. The bitterness I felt was way too much I kept blaming myself for being so stupid telling such a personal privacy to them. Because they considered me as a weirdo afterwards.

Imaginations that made people rant about me being crazy and yap about how that can't possibly happen. I always assume those people just don't get it, I mean how come this impossibly happen when me, the sufferer, the real so-called victim does exist? Me, whom they thought was only another nut, standing and living and inhaling the same oxygen as they do? They only keep compressing each cell in their brain with silly statement that I'm just one with no commonsense, which--of course--isn't true. Or probably is true. Whatever.

And imaginations that made my dad, my own dad, behaves so awkwardly reluctant, distant, cold, and all that to me ever since doctor told him. I was literally aghast in the first month or so once he barely even talked to me. I don't have any siblings, and all I have now is only him. So what can I do? Average teenagers go out of their way to keep bringing up how sweet their dads allegedly are. I believe their stories after all since I also have ever felt them a couple years ago, but it's just no way for now. Oftentimes, I grumble how love can slip away that way, how life can be so unfair, and how everything goes sucks way too much.

Rosaline was now in the middle of the night, where the moon was exactly on top of her. It was downright murky. Her sight was only 10 meters away and yet she kept on wandering.

A wooden building considerably loomed as a haggard one, wedged in a darkening patch of shadow. The grove of trees seemed to be steadily disappearing as--apparently--a shack with a muddy water in front of its door came to her sight. The window, the only window in there, was really dust-frosted. The shack had seemingly not been cleaned up like in ages, and it was gross.

Rosaline knocked the door as though there were any ones living in it. But of course no answer came as a response, and therefore she then opened the door and found an old wooden chair as the only thing left in that shack.

She sat, thought of an absolute nothing, waiting to come down to earth and play another fun game with Tulpa in real life.

This is what I've learned about life: happiness and pain never go hand in hand. --ets281214

Rosaline & Tulpa #2

Blood draining from his arm.

He ground and bore it though.

"Urgh! What the fuck?!” He tried to wipe the blood off his left arm with the nearest mop his right hand could reach, though it got him to need some steps and stand against Rosaline.

“For Lucifer’s sake what’s bloody going on,” He grumbled, causing it not be heard as a question. He then threw the mop away without bothering to see where it going to land.

He seemingly didn’t care about the outrageous words spoken just seconds ago as Rosaline was standing still right next to him. He seemingly didn’t even notice that Rosaline was also in the kitchen, if he didn’t spun around.

 “And what are you doing in here, Rose?!"

By the litany of swearwords following it, the way his scratchy voice heard outrageously, and the way he said each word very pronouncedly, Rosaline's Dad seemingly didn't even bother to try to struggle keeping his voice even. His lips taut with anger, his bloodshot eyes bulged, flared with great fury, peering deadly in the eye at his daughter who was his only child (if only he still considered her as his child). He clenched his fist as though he'd punch her right in the face seconds after, inducing his biceps much more bulged. A surge of heat pulsed through his veins.

"I-I am pl-ay-ying new g-game, Dad-dy!" Rosaline innocently answered, clapping her hands excitedly while jiggling her legs up and down as if she just had told her Dad a very good news she couldn't even shut her mouth up any longer. Then she stilled, squinted, perhaps anticipating her Dad's response.

Rosaline's Dad squeezed Rosaline's left shoulder by his right arm-the arm which wasn't stabbed. He then took several deep breaths while bending over Rosaline.

And again, he peered deadly at her in the eye.

“What did ya just say?” He said too slowly it was more like whispering.

“I-I am pl-ay-ying new g-game,”

“New game?”

Rosaline nodded. “Tell me what kind of game that using knife as its toy, huh?!” His Dad was shocked at how steady his voice sounded.

Rosaline shrugged and shook her head as answering, “I d-don’t kno-ow, Da…”

“How come you don’t know when you just played that new game and stabbed me?! Stabbed your own father!?” He yelled at her, waiting for Rosaline’s excuse.

But Rosaline just shuddered, cringed, wrinkling up her face as she finally snapped out of her daze. Initially, she was confused, but then her brain somehow sent  signals that told her that her Dad was being angry. She then gave in to either fear or grief. Her eyes began to be glassy. She didn’t understand why her Dad be such downright hideous. She then closed her eyes for several seconds when her Dad tugged her chin up.

“Huh?” He said.

“I-I real-ly d-on’t kn-n-ow…” She murmured then sighed in trepidation, avoiding the eye contact with her Dad. “She d-didn’t tell m-me an-anythi-ng.”

Her Dad gawked at her for a moment. “She?” Rosaline nodded and wiped her tears away, didn’t want his Dad see her crying like a loser. “Who is she?”

“T-tul-pa.”

Her Dad stood up, stilled, furrowed his brow. “Tulpa?”

Confusion swirled in his brain. No, the proper word for it actually was disbelief. Disbelief swirled in his brain. He did know that her daughter suffered from that-whatever-psychological-disorder, but never knew she was this severely suffered.

Never knew, because he had never even been trying to rivet to how weird every single behavior his daughter had since her wife, Rosaline’s Mom, passed away almost 3 years ago.

And he would probably never try.

Rosaline’s Dad’s head was like slipping beneath the water he couldn’t think

He then took a deep breath, sat down cross-legged leaning against the wall, trying to figure it out though he somehow knew he couldn’t. The distinct smell of blood, icy air, and some kind of foods made him wanna puke. The air somehow felt colder than before it made him shiver in despair. He tried to find another lap to mop the bloody floor and clean up the mess he-they-just made.

“Whatever. Just go back to your room, Rose.”

Rosaline bustled in haste. She stayed clamed up even when her Dad shouted, “And make sure you won’t do any stupid game like this, will ya!”

She entered her room in, didn’t let the icy wind blow in from the open window as she closed it right away before going to bed. A woman-she forgot who she was, her Mom perhaps?-once told her that she was born to be the strongest girl ever alive in this universe. Rosaline honestly never really considered it as her words to live, but she somehow knew that it was true. She could feel it in herself. And she believed it.

What was just happened minutes ago was sort of haze. Blur. It was like loads of thoughts were milling about of her mind, but she couldn’t speak it all out. It stifled her; that mixed of one point when she was about to cry and she was about to scream.

The dense thoughts disorientated her in her own mind.

Rosaline was whacked, drowned in obscurity, too overwhelmed to move. --ets300614